When ‘No’ Is the Kindest Thing We Can Say
Why setting loving limits is essential to raising resilient kids
There’s a voice inside so many of us that says:
If I say no, they’ll be upset. I don’t want them to feel rejected. I don’t want to be the reason they cry.
I’ve heard that voice from parents in my office. I’ve heard it in schools, especially when we know some kids are carrying heavier emotional loads. And I’ve heard it in my own head, too.
Think about this for a minute—what if “no” isn’t rejection at all?
What if it’s a different kind of love?
A love that says, I see you. I know what you want. And I love you enough to hold this boundary anyway.
We tell ourselves we’re being kind when we allow children to cross boundaries. When we give them one more “yes” after a long string of yeses. We don’t want our children to feel disappointment, frustration, sadness, or exclusion. We don’t want them to feel left out when others are included—or worse, to be the ones who exclude. We don’t want them to experience the sting of a limit, the sadness of being told no when yes would be so easy.
We remember how those things felt in our own childhoods—how unfair it seemed, how we protested that others “got to,” how we felt misunderstood. And some of us are still healing from boundaries that felt harsh or unforgiving.
So we say yes. Or maybe. Or not right now. Or “okay, just this once”—when what we really mean is no.
We say yes because we want them to be happy.
Because we’re tired.
Because we’re not in the mood for negotiation.
Because we need to work, make dinner, or manage the bedtime chaos.
Because it just feels easier in the moment.
We say yes because saying no feels like confrontation. Or failure.
But permissiveness isn’t peace. Constantly saying yes in situations that call for a clear limit, a consequence, or even a calm, “I’m sorry, you can’t do this right now,” isn’t kindness—it’s avoidance.
It delays the inevitable moment in a child’s life when they will have to learn that the world has boundaries. That disappointment is part of growth. That frustration doesn’t mean something is wrong.
By not teaching them early, we deny them the ability to grow the necessary muscle.
Let me say this clearly:
No is also a kind sentence.
In my work coaching parents, this is often one of the hardest pieces to support them through—creating boundaries that are both firm and loving.
I’ve sat with so many parents who say things like:
“I just hate seeing them upset.”
“It feels mean to say no when they’re already having a hard time.”
Others are just being honest about how exhausting it is:
“It just wasn’t worth the fight.”
“I didn’t have the energy to deal with another meltdown.”
“I figured… what’s the big deal this time?”
I once worked with a mother who was exhausted from nightly battles over screen time. She didn’t want to be the “bad guy.” She just wanted peace.
Every evening, it followed the same cycle. She’d remind her son that screen time was almost over, and he’d immediately push back—begging for more minutes, insisting he hadn’t had enough time, arguing that his friends got to watch longer. When she tried to turn the screen off, he’d yell or sulk or throw the remote across the couch. At times he cried. Other nights, she walked away and let him finish just to avoid the screaming.
She wasn’t just managing one child’s emotions—she had two younger kids who also needed her attention. One was still finishing homework, the other needed help getting ready for bed. The noise, the tension, the unpredictability—it seeped into the whole house.
Afterward, she’d sit at the kitchen table, drained. She had already worked a full day, made dinner, helped with homework, and handled all the transitions that come with parenting. Saying no felt like opening the door to another emotional storm she didn’t feel equipped to weather.
Her child was upset at first, of course. He stomped away. He tested the limits. He pouted and asked again, just in case she might change her mind. She stayed steady—firm, calm, and consistent.
A few weeks later, she told me,
“He’s calmer. I think he actually feels better knowing where the line is.”
What she meant was this: he no longer screamed when screen time ended. He still asked, but only once. When she said no, he accepted it. He started turning off the tablet on his own, without throwing it or shouting. Bedtime became less of a battle. The evenings were quieter. There was more room for connection, for winding down, for breathing.
What we don’t always talk about is what happens after we set that boundary.
Because sometimes, the moment we say no, our child begins to negotiate. They protest. They wear us down with
“Just five more minutes.”
“But everyone else is allowed.”
“You’re so unfair.”
In those moments—especially when we’re tired, distracted, or just trying to keep the peace—it can feel easier to give in.
But holding the boundary is the loving choice. Not just for that moment, but for all the moments to come.
Try saying:
“My job is to help you grow, not just to make you happy right now.”
“You don’t have to like this. I’m still going to hold the line.”
When a child gets to practice hearing no at home—when they learn that boundaries are safe, not scary—they begin to internalize emotional regulation. They don’t just comply; they build capacity.
This is especially clear in schools.
Like when a teacher says, “Stop doing that,” and a child who hasn’t been held in boundaries before responds with,
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
It’s not always defiance. Sometimes it’s a child who has never had to feel frustration and stay regulated. They don’t know how. The limit feels unfamiliar, threatening. Their body reacts before their brain catches up. They escalate—argue, shut down, disrupt—not because they’re disrespectful, but because they haven’t been given the chance to practice.
Other times, we’re talking about kids who are facing deeper challenges—kids with learning differences, anxiety, ADHD, trauma, or other mental health needs. These children are often mislabeled as oppositional when what’s really happening is overwhelm. Their nervous systems are already running hot. They’re doing everything they can to just keep up.
For these kids, clear limits, predictable routines, and “closed tasks” (things with a clear beginning and end) don’t feel restrictive—they feel safe. Boundaries reduce the mental load. They keep the child’s brain from leaping into survival mode. When a child knows what to expect, and what’s expected of them, they don’t have to burn precious energy negotiating every step or scanning the room for cues. They get to focus on being present. Kids with complex needs don’t need permissiveness. They need love and leadership.
Of course, even kids who do have firm, loving homes still melt down in public sometimes. That doesn’t mean something is broken. It means they’re human. They get tired, overwhelmed, hungry, embarrassed, dysregulated. It’s not always going to look pretty—and it doesn’t have to.
What matters is what happens next.
They need us to debrief with them. To name the moment without shame. To show them that we’re not afraid of their big feelings—but we also expect them to grow.
“That was really hard. I saw how upset you were. And next time, let’s try using words or a tool instead of yelling. It’s okay to feel upset, but it’s not okay to scream or throw things when things don’t go your way.”
We name the behavior without making it who they are. We remind them what they’re capable of. And then we move forward.
That’s how kids learn to trust both their limits and their potential.
When children aren’t given consistent, loving boundaries, they don’t just skip a developmental stage—they carry that gap with them.
The child who never learns to tolerate a firm “no” becomes the teenager who views rules as attacks, or who falls apart when faced with structure they didn’t create. The young adult who was never asked to self-regulate becomes the roommate who doesn’t clean up after themselves and takes every request as criticism. The employee who interprets feedback as rejection. The partner who hears a boundary and believes it means they’re unloved.
It’s not because they’re unkind or selfish. It’s because no one helped them build that muscle when they were small. No one said, “I love you, and I’m still saying no.” No one held the boundary with enough warmth and consistency to help them internalize it as safety, not shame.
So when the world inevitably says, You can’t do that, or This doesn’t work for me, or Here’s what’s expected, they don’t know how to tolerate it. They crumble. Or lash out. Or leave.
This is why boundaries matter. Not to control children, but to equip them. So that when they grow up and move through the world—with bosses, teachers, partners, neighbors, friends—they already know how to be in relationship with people who have needs, limits, and truths of their own.
Boundaries aren’t just for childhood.
They’re practice for real life.
Your child won’t always like it. They might cry. They might slam a door.
They might say you’re mean.
That’s okay. That’s not the end of the story.
Over time, they will come to feel safe in your steadiness. Safe in the clarity of your presence. Safe in a love that doesn’t need to please, but shows up fully for the work of raising them.
Because that’s what love does- It stays, even when things get hard.
🪞 Reflection
Think back to a recent moment when your child or a child you work with pushed against a limit.
What was your internal response—guilt, frustration, fear of conflict?
How might you revisit that moment with the mindset that “no” can be a kind, loving sentence?
What’s one boundary you’ve been hesitant to hold that, if reframed as an act of love, might help your child feel more secure?